


so dust off your highest hopes

by anneweaver



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, and the second most self indulgent thing i will ever write, fluff fest with some angst here and there, musician au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-09-25 17:57:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9836414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneweaver/pseuds/anneweaver
Summary: Multi-platinum pop star Jemma Simmons and up-and-coming indie singer/songwriter Leopold Fitz meet, write some songs, become best friends, go on tour together, drink lots of tea, deal with the press and fall in love... though maybe not in that order.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Everything has Changed, by Taylor Swift ft. Ed Sheeran.

The second he walks into the massive apartment, he’s greeted by a small, fluffy white cat that rubs against his leg, circles him, meows and then stands in front of him, pleading for pets in her cat-like way. Immediately after, a petite woman in a robe rushes to the front door, crouches to grab her cat and then offers her hand.

“She didn’t scratch you, did she?” she asks him, worry all over her features, and he grins in reassurance.

“She’s actually quite nice, already claimed me as her own,” he replies, and takes her hand, shakes it. “Pleasure to  _ finally  _ meet you, Jemma Simmons.”

She beams at him and lets go of her cat, grabs his hand with both of hers to shake it. “Believe me, the pleasure is all mine. I am a  _ huge  _ fan of yours, so I’m kind of freaking out right now,” she admits, sheepishly smiling and looking down. Fitz is taken aback for a second.

“You want me to sign something for you?” he deadpans, for lack of a better reaction, eliciting a snort from her. 

He had to admit it had been odd when his manager had suggested a songwriting session with Jemma Simmons, multi-platinum artist, America’s sweetheart, and someone whose musical (and general) style was more along the lines of sold-out stadiums than small, poorly lit venues like his own style. Mack knew him better than most other people, though, and he had been there while Fitz was struggling the most; he never had, and never would, let him do anything that wasn’t true to himself, so he knew that, ultimately, he wouldn’t have suggested this if he hadn’t thought it would be a good opportunity… and, he had to admit, it was a damn good opportunity. 

Plus, it really didn’t hurt that he was a fan of hers, either; not only she always seemed very genuine and down-to-earth, but she was, in his opinion, one of the best artists of this generation, lyrics, music, or performance-wise. 

So yes, maybe he accepted that songwriting session with a tad more enthusiasm than Mack had been expecting. The part where Jemma Simmons told him she was a big fan, though? That was absolutely unexpected, and if she was freaking out, he most definitely was too.

He’s pulled back from his brief moment of awe when she tugs at their still joined hands and leads him inside her flat. “I’d rather have a selfie, actually,” she replies with a bright smile in her face, “but that'll have to wait. We have work to do.”

“Yeah, about that,” he says, focusing on the task at hand, then scratches his neck with the hand that Jemma isn’t currently holding. “Do you have any ideas? I’m not sure what you’re looking for so I don’t have anything to work with.”

She points at the loveseat and finally lets go of his hand, then gives him a pointed look before heading to the kitchen. He sits and rubs his hands together, feeling suddenly awkward.

“Well,” she says, her voice louder so he can hear her from the living room, “your strength is fairly obvious, and I’ve been meaning to write a love song for ages but they are never as great as yours. Do you mind if we start with that?”

He lets out a relieved sigh, and then stops for a second, frowns. “Wait, most of your songs are love songs,” he points out, and then hears her laughter from the kitchen.

“Well,  _ yes _ ,” she says, matter-of-factly, “but, for starters, you’re infinitely better at love songs than I am, and even though I  _ have  _ written love songs before, it’s never been a duet. I know it’s like, weird, since we met five minutes ago, but do you think we can pull this off?” He lets out a relieved sigh; now this was his comfort zone, this he could do. 

“I already feel like this is working out well,” he comments, then pulls out his phone to type some random lyrics that made it into his head.

She peeks her head from the kitchen. “Can I offer you something? Water? Tea? Wine? Would it be too stereotypical of me to offer you Scotch?”

He laughs, still typing away at his phone. “Not that I would mind tea, but I’m very particular with how I drink mine, so water is fine for now.”

She laughs. “You offend me, Fitz. I was born in England, my entire family is British, I know how to make a good cup of tea.”

“I don't know about that…” he says, mostly to tease her, and she walks out of the kitchen with a defying look in her eyes, wiping her hands with a towel.

“You know what, I will make you some tea. And I give you full permission to slander me in front of the press if you don’t like it.”

He looks at her straight in the eyes. “Deal.”

That is how it starts.

-o-

They’re sitting on the floor, Fitz mindlessly playing chords on his guitar, while she asks him about his time in London, and listens to him like he is telling the most interesting story she had ever heard. They had given up on writing about half an hour ago, mostly because they had actually managed to come up with enough lyrics for three different songs, and had progressed so much in one of said songs that he was certain it would make it into her next album after some minor tweaks.

He was feeling really content, actually; Jemma was an excellent match for him, songwriting wise and music wise and tea wise, oddly enough, and he knew that even if what they’d written today didn’t make it into her album, they’d still keep in touch and keep writing and maybe even manage to become friends. Because God knows he already considered her a friend, only five hours after meeting her.

“...so that night I ended up deciding my next few gigs were going to pay for a ticket to LA, and actually it took me a few weeks and a  _ lot _ of couch surfing but when I made it here, I ended up crashing on Nick Fury’s couch for like a month after he caught me performing at this pub he owns. It was pretty awesome.”

“Wait, really?” she says, genuinely impressed. “How did you even end up on Fury’s couch? The man is  _ super  _ intimidating, he talked to me once at the Grammys and I couldn’t look him in the eye! Melinda and him go way back, though, I think that’s the only reason he even acknowledged my existence, but… wow.”

“First of all, it’s impossible for anyone not to acknowledge your existence,” he notes, and sips from the fourth cup of tea of the day, “but yes, the man is extremely intimidating, it actually took  _ a lot _ of liquid courage for me to accept his offer,” he jokes, and she snorts really loudly. “And I’m glad I did, because I wouldn’t have met Phil if I hadn’t, and I’m sure I wouldn’t be here now…” 

“Well, you deserve it,” she says, suddenly very serious, interrupting his sentence. “Of course it helps that you had Phil Coulson on your corner—and, by the way, it blows my mind that you can just call him Phil—, but you are one of the most genuine, talented people in the industry. Credit yourself a little more, will you?”

He looks down at his guitar, doesn’t say anything in response; she nudges his knee with hers, prompting him to look at her.

“I usually don’t do this, you know?” she tells him. “I’m not sure how much of my music you’ve listened to before–”

“All of it,” he says, flushing a bit once he realizes how enthusiastic his response was. “I mean… yeah, I bought all your albums. I’m a pretty big fan too, you know.”

She beams at him. “Well, I am very flattered,” she says, her hand reaching for his and squeezing it briefly, “but my point was that I don’t really do duets? This whole thing was my label’s idea, not mine, I rarely find people I get along with both professionally and personally, but they insisted and only one person occurred to me when they asked who I wanted to work with,” she admits, then, and it’s her turn to look down bashfully.

He looks at her, waiting for her to continue, and then, when she doesn’t, prompts her to go on.

“Who was it?” 

She looks at him then, suddenly, and frowns. “...it was you. I asked for you.” His eyes grow wide.

“Oh,” he says, the disbelief evident in his voice, and she nods.

“Yep,” she says, then starts playing random chords, “I knew you would’ve made a great addition to my album, and not just because I really love your music. Even if nothing had come out from today’s session, I still wanted to talk to you…” she grows quiet for a second, and then looks up, smirking, “but I’m glad things came out because I don’t know about you but wow, we make a great team.”

He snorts and holds up his hand. “Damn right we do.”

She high-fives him.

(She does end up asking for that selfie, and both of their collective fanbases grow wild at the sight of them together. All in all, it was a productive day.)

-o-

They keep in contact over the next few weeks, sending each other voice notes with new suggestions or tweaks for their song, and Jemma had even taken to asking for his input on the new songs she had been writing for her new album. It was an easy friendship, he realized; there was absolutely no baggage, no pressure despite both being in the public eye, and a really stimulating back-and-forth that, he knew, was going to be great for his career.

It wasn’t just that, though. Jemma Simmons was an absolutely delightful person to talk to, and for some reason that was beyond him, she seemed to really enjoy talking to him. They facetimed and texted and talked over the phone, more often than he would probably admit to the press; they were always talking about different things, almost never about work (though she did call him often from the studio). She was smart and hilarious and always kept him guessing, and even though working with her was a great professional opportunity, he was even more thankful for the friendship they’d forged. 

Before they both knew, it was time for them to go to the studio and record their song; it would be a simple, stripped down performance, just them with their acoustic guitars and nothing else, singing about love at first sight, of all things—though for some reason, that specific topic had worked for them: they had written the lyrics in under an hour and the music in less than 15 minutes, leaving them plenty of time to tweak the song and write more unrelated lyrics. 

Now, though, it would be time to record it and be done with it, probably forever, save for maybe some press and a few special performances. Fitz pretended not to be sad about this fact; he had grown rather fond of this song and, most of all, he had grown rather fond of the woman he had written it with.

He takes a deep breath and walks into the studio before he is, once again, greeted by a cat. He beams at it and bends down to pick it up.

“You know, you’ve never told me her name,” he comments, once he notices Jemma is in close proximity, and she extends her arms to pick her cat up.

“This is Amy, she’s the nice one,” she says, rubbing the cat behind her ears, “and I’m pretty sure you haven’t met Dana yet because she’s antisocial and really,  _ really  _ mean. She’s probably lurking somewhere behind the drum set.”

He nods. “That makes sense,” he says, then follows Jemma to the control room. Her team is already there, as he assumed they would be but, to his surprise, so is Mack. He gives him a pointed look, and the man only shrugs in response, smirks and looks away.

Before he can respond, walk up to his manager to greet him, or even process anything that’s currently happening, Jemma holds his hand and tugs, leading him into the live room, and gives him a giddy smile that’s so contagious he can’t help but grin back at her.

“This is so exciting, isn’t it?” she beams. “I was already thinking of how a music video for this song could look like–”

“Wait, hold up,” he interrupts her, taken aback for the second time that day, “you want to make this song a single?”

She rolls her eyes and then looks at him fondly. “Well, of course! Not first single, though, that I already picked out—actually, remind me to send it to you later, I want to hear your opinion—but maybe as the last single? It’s softer than the rest of the album so we wouldn’t have to worry to build up hype for it, and it would be an excellent final single– if you’re okay with it, of course.”

“Are you for real?” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Why on Earth would I not be okay with it? That would be insane. I am  _ so _ on board.”

“Well, that’s just wonderful,” she jokes, then strums her guitar once, “because I was ready to fight you if you didn’t agree with me.”

Fitz bursts into laughter and Jemma motions to the producer, clears her throat and sits straighter; he follows her movements, and then they’re both holding their guitars, the microphones in front of them, and it’s happening.

It hadn’t been a long process for them, not compared to other artists or to other songs; somehow, despite all the doubts that had plagued him at first, writing with Jemma had been as easy as breathing and, most of all, being her friend had been one of the fastest, effortless things he had ever done.

But after this, he had no real reason to keep talking to her; after they were done recording, it might as well be the end of them.

His gaze is fixed on her, almost as if it’s the first time he’s really looked at her; she looks serene playing her guitar, a soft smile on her features while she looks at him as if, right now, no one else exists except for both of them and this song they wrote.

It’s when he almost misses his cue to start singing that he decides this would not be the end of them.

When it’s time to sing his part, he doesn’t take his eyes off her.

-o-

The recording part doesn’t take long, which does not come as a surprise for either of them; they had known by now they were a perfect match on everything, and this was no exception. They high-five enthusiastically and walk out of the live room chattering excitedly about the song, and when they’re waiting in the control room, absentmindedly watching the producer and their managers discuss their song and the arrangements they wanted, they still don’t stop talking, playing footsie under the table and sharing secretive smiles.

When Melinda decides it’s time for them all to have lunch, they walk a few steps behind everyone, Jemma’s bodyguard being the only person behind them. They walk silently for a while, but when they’re about to step off the building, Jemma turns to look at him and blurts out, “You should go on tour with me.”

Fitz looks at her, narrows his eyes. “What?” She laughs nervously.

“Oh, Melinda is going to  _ kill _ me,” she mutters, scratches the back of her neck, then looks at her bodyguard. “Glenn, my man,” she says, smiling sweetly at him, “I need a minute with Fitz, can you tell everyone we’ll be there in five?”

“You want May to slaughter me?” he asks, and though it’s amusing to see such a big man be so absolutely terrified of a woman the size of Melinda May, Fitz absolutely understands him. Jemma only looks at him with pleading eyes and he sighs. “Fine. Don’t take long and do not take one step outside of this building without calling me first, do you understand?”

“You’re the best,” she says, blows him a kiss and then grabs Fitz’s hand, dragging him away from the main entrance and into one of the many deserted hallways of the studio. When she checks that no one is around, she lets go of his hand and leans against the wall opposite his, rubs her face with one hand.

“This is an awful lot of secrecy, Jemma,” he points out, and she giggles.

“I know!” She groans, then grimaces, “I know, but I should  _ not _ be telling you this yet, Melinda made me swear I wouldn’t tell you until it was certain, but since I went and blurted it out and ruined everything then I might as well,” she takes a deep breath and crosses her arms, starts rambling as fast as she can, “So after the album’s release I’m starting an arena tour here in the US and I think there’s even a leg in the UK and Europe planned and anyway I obviously would need an opening act and I’ve had lots of offers already but there’s really only one person I want but I’m not sure if you’re beyond opening for me already–”

“Definitely not,” Fitz says, interrupting her, his eyes having grown wide during her rant. When he sees her face fall, he rushes to correct himself. “I mean– no, I’m most definitely not beyond opening for you! I would love to be your opening act, Jemma,” he says, taking one step forward and grabbing her hand with both of his. “It means a lot that you’d think of me and it would be wonderful, but I think you’re forgetting that you should probably talk to mom and dad first,” he points at the general direction of the door, where Melinda and Mack surely would be any time now if they didn’t show up to the restaurant soon.

“Oh, about that,” she chuckles, “um, that might or might not be already settled?” she tells him, and takes another step forward, “Melinda has been going over the details with Mack for a few weeks now, the only issue was whether you’d want to do it or not, and I wasn’t really sure if you would…”

“Yeah, right, like I could ever refuse something like that,” he deadpans, squeezing her hand a little harder. “I can’t believe Mack knew and didn’t tell me, though.”

Jemma looks down, embarrassed. “Yeah, that was my idea. I just wasn’t sure if it would work out or not, and I didn’t want to get my hopes up, or yours for that matter, so I told Melinda to ask him first, just in case. But it looks like it will work out and now you just have to say yes, so…” she hesitates for a moment, then takes a deep breath and kneels in front of him. Fitz mockingly gasps and tries to bite back a smile, while Jemma pretends to pull out a fake ring box from her pocket. “Leopold Fitz, would you please be the opening act of my upcoming arena tour?”

He puts a hand over his chest and looks up, pretends to think about it for a few seconds before he can’t keep himself from laughing any longer, says: “Jemma Simmons, I would be absolutely honored… but I believe I already had said yes?”

She stands up and brushes her knees, then looks at him. “Well, it wasn’t official until now,” she says, shrugs, then holds both of her hands up for a high-five, which he gladly accepts. “We’re going on tour, Fitz.” 

“Yes, we are,” he replies, and they tangle their fingers together in the air.

(A few days later he gets an email with the subject: “!!!!!!” that only contained the final mix of their song and a tentative list of tour dates spanning six months and two continents. He can’t help but grin when he texts Jemma thirteen exclamation points in return.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Cindy and Shay for largely saving this chapter by beta-ing and providing much needed tour and song names that I would've never come up with on my own.

The Night-Night Tour, which had amazingly sold out in its entirety in less than a week, starts exactly six months after the day they first met. The first day is nerve wracking and exhausting for Fitz, both because he had to meet Jemma and both of their crews at 4 a.m. and he had barely slept the night before, and because the expectations were high, both his and everyone else’s. To say this would be one terrifying ride would be an understatement.

Everyone in both crews seemed to be running on no sleep and lots of caffeine, which meant he was not exactly in the best of moods; he’s talking to one of his roadies about the best way to pack his guitars, when Jemma approaches him from behind and jumps on his back, wrapping her arms around his neck and almost making him lose his balance.

“Good morning, darling,” she says, then kisses his cheek quickly before getting off his back. He turns to frown at her, his face somber.

“You seem awfully chipper. I don’t like it,” he says drily. She laughs and grabs his hand, looks at the roadie with an apologetic look on her face. 

“Sorry, I’m stealing him for a second, the poor man needs some caffeine,” she explains, dragging Fitz away from him and over to the tour bus. They walk up the stairs together and Jemma leads him to the little kitchenette, where she proudly points to a brand new tea kettle and beams at him. Fitz can’t help but huff out a laugh.

“Really?”

“You mentioned once that you didn’t like coffee and you’re also very particular about how you drink your tea, which, lucky for you, I know exactly how to make, so I thought, hm, since we’re gonna be sharing living quarters for the next six months and you become this,” she gestures in his general direction, making him frown, “when you’re tired, then this is absolutely necessary. For both your sanity and mine.”

He stares at her for a second before closing the small space between them and hugging her tight. “You, my friend, are a godsend. Please make me some tea.”

She giggles with her face buried in his neck, and pats his back. “You’re gonna have to let me go for that,” she says, as he drops his arms. She blows him a kiss before turning around to make him the cup of tea he had so desperately requested, and says, “Welcome to the Night-Night Tour, Fitz.”

-o-

He’s just finished playing his setlist and walks offstage, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt, his guitar hanging from his back. Whatever he had been expecting, it certainly wasn’t to hear thousands of people—who were not there to see him—singing along to his songs.  _ All _ of his songs.

Jemma is waiting for him backstage, beaming at him and clapping excitedly. “Did you  _ hear _ that? It sounded like this isn’t even my tour!” She exclaims and rushes to grab his face and plant a kiss on his cheek. She scrunches her nose up. “You’re sweaty.”

“Yeah, I wonder why,” he deadpans, then hands his guitar to one of the techies. “That was insane, wasn’t it? I was  _ not _ expecting that.”

“People love you, Fitz,” she says, grabbing his hand, “you should start getting used to that.”

He shakes his head. “I know people like my songs, but this is the kind of response I expect on my own tours, not on  _ your  _ tour. They’re here to see you, not me, and yet…”

She laughs and plants another kiss on his cheek. “Come on, you haven’t realized this tour sold out because people are here to see you as much as they’re here to see me?” One of the techs rushes to where they are and taps Jemma on the shoulder, gives her the 5 minute warning. She looks at him apologetically. “It’s time, I’ll see you afterwards?”

He stares at her, eyebrows raised in mock offense. “I’m sorry, are you planning to sing our duet by yourself?” She covers her mouth and gasps, then gives him a bright smile.

“Yeah, right, I’ll see you in about…” she looks at her phone and looks back at him. “25 minutes.”

“Break a leg!” he says and waves at her as she runs to the platform in her high heels.

(Exactly 25 minutes later he walks onstage to sing  _ Something Magnificent  _ and the stage shakes with the chaos that ensues. He doesn’t notice the people scream the loudest when Jemma holds her hand out for him to take and when she hugs him after the song is done.)

-o-

On day six of the tour, Fitz’s mind starts getting restless. He scribbles down some loose lyrics here and there, and mindlessly plays the guitar whenever he gets the chance, usually when he’s hanging out with Jemma’s backup dancers who seem to love jamming with him (or just listening to him play), even when Jemma is gone for whatever reason. The creative energy floating around the people he was surrounded by was inspiring, and more often than not he finds himself coming up with more and more lyrics.

Mack, thankfully, knows him enough to be aware of his constant need to make music, and the morning before the second date of the tour, he sits by him and claps him on the back.

“You need to demo something, don’t you?” he asks, and Fitz turns to look at him, surprised.

“How did you know?”

“You get this… constipation face, whenever you’re thinking of new lyrics,” he says, making Fitz choke on the water he’s drinking. Mack laughs. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. But really, I just know it, and lucky for you I brought some of my equipment, if you need it.”

Fitz narrows his eyes. “Your equipment? Since when do you have  _ equipment  _ ?”

“Okay, it’s just a mic, my laptop and some programs– why are you questioning  _ me _ , the sound engineer!” Mack chides him, and Fitz raises his hands.

“Okay, okay,  _ fine _ . Maybe after the show tonight? You free?”

Mack smiles at him and wraps one arm around his head, softly pats his hair. “I’m your manager, my schedule is subject to whatever you desire.” Fitz laughs, then, and pats his arm.

“In that case, you’re free now to bring me some tea.”

Mack huffs.

-o-

The following week goes by in a blur of playing shows, drinking tea and hanging out with Jemma, jamming with the backup dancers, and writing songs and recording demos with Mack. Despite all his daily activities, Fitz isn’t tired, feeling constantly inspired and full of energy instead.

On day ten of the tour, he flops down on the floor of Jemma’s dressing room after they have performed their duet and waits for her, scrolling through his phone while she’s done with the remainder of her setlist. When she arrives, breathing heavily and sweating, he looks at her from the floor. 

“How did it go?” he asks, and she yelps and brings her hand up to her chest.

“Oh my  _ God Fitz what are you doing,” _ she shrieks, and he starts laughing. She frowns at him. “Don’t scare me like that again!”

“Sorry, Jemma,” he shrugs, then hands over his phone and a pair of headphones. “I just had to show you something, wanted to hear your opinion. Put on your headphones and press play.”

She does as he instructs, and he stays on the floor, staring intently at her face for any signs of either approval or disapproval. Aside from himself and Mack, she was the first person to hear this song, and her opinion mattered to him, probably more than he wanted to admit to himself or to her. She was not only his friend, maybe even one of his best friends, but in the six months they had known each other, she was constantly pushing him to be a better version of himself, both as a person and as an artist, so showing her this song was a little unnerving.

Luckily for him, her face goes from deep concentration to sudden wide eyes and jaw drop, and he takes it as a good sign. It’s not a long demo, so she should be finishing it in about–

“Oh, my God,” she mutters, stares at his phone and then looks at him with her eyes shining. “Fitz, that was… wow.”

“So, good?” he prompts, and she smiles a watery smile at him.

“It’s one of those times where I question my abilities as a songwriter,” she admits, and he chuckles.

“You’re a damn great songwriter, Simmons,” he says, then extends his arm for her to help him off the floor; she takes his hand and gives him a little squeeze before pulling him up. “Really, really good. But thank you, though.”

“I kinda want to give you a hug now,” she shrugs, and he extends his arms to wrap her in.

-o-

Their first show-less day of the tour happens on day thirteen, but it’s also filled with radio interviews and a photoshoot for a joint interview with Rolling Stone, which meant getting an earlier-than-usual start that Fitz had been dreading for the past week.

Jemma, ever the early bird, knocks on his hotel room door at five past four in the morning before letting herself in anyway, with two cups of tea and a bright smile. Fitz is sitting on his bed, wearing a robe and frowning.

“How,” he groans, “how are you always so happy in the morning.”

She hands him the cup of tea and pats his head. “I’ve always been a morning person. Now, where’s your suitcase, we need to make you look presentable.”

“Mack already picked my outfit,” he says, sighing and sipping from his cup, “it’s over there on that chair– yes, that one, would you bring it over– thank you, you’re an angel.”

She blows him a kiss, “I know that, now get ready,” she prompts him and sips from her own cup, “they want us on location while it’s still dark so we have about… twenty minutes before we have to leave.”

“We’re no use for them in the dark, though, what pictures can they possibly take?” he asks, while disrobing and tugging on his pants like there was no one else in the room. Jemma doesn’t visibly react, keeps talking and drinking her tea, but she doesn’t take her gaze off his mostly-naked body either, and Fitz is too sleepy to notice his friend has been ogling him for the past few minutes.

Once he’s fully dressed, Jemma walks over to him with a hair comb, and he gapes at her. “Really?”

“I know you like your sleep-tousled look but this is a Rolling Stone photoshoot, love,” she tells him, running the comb through his untamable curls while he sits on the bed, moping.

“Not only can I think of at least one Rolling Stone photoshoot that included wild hair and naked people on a bed, but you’re already presentable enough for the both of us,” he points out, “and I like to give the impression of someone who doesn’t care about his appearance.”

“First of all, I’m choosing to take that comment about me being presentable as a compliment instead of something that could potentially get us killed if you said it in front of Jeff, and second of all, the fact that you’re letting me brush your hair is enough to destroy that second statement.”

He thinks about retorting, but he’s still half-asleep and he can’t bring himself to complain when Jemma is running her fingers through his head in such a relaxing, gentle way.

A few seconds later she’s done, and she lets him know by planting a soft kiss on his head. “You’re good,” she says, then brushes his shoulder with her fingertips, “and we should probably go now if we’re gonna catch the sunrise and not get murdered by a stressed out Rolling Stone photographer.”

The idea of a photographer beating him to death with an expensive camera is enough to get him on his feet. 

They walk out of his room holding hands. 

(By 8 a.m., Jemma has already posted on Instagram a picture of them holding their guitars, only their silhouettes visible with the light of the sunrise in the background. It crashes the app for almost fifteen minutes.)

-o-

Radio interviews were one of his favorite press activities, and it didn’t hurt that Jemma seemed to be as good as he was at joking with the hosts, that the host of this particular show was one of his longtime friends, and that for this particular segment, he got to pick the music that would be played.

“So, what do you want to play next?” Daisy said, adjusting her headphones and shooting him a look. He raises his hands.

“See, I’ve already picked a bunch of songs, I believe it’s time for Miss Simmons to pick one?” he offers, and Jemma laughs into the microphone.

“If you insist,” she says, “then I would very much love for Daisy to play Back to Me, by none other than the man sitting right next to me.”

Fitz snorts. “Hey, Joey, didn’t know you had a budding career in music,” he jokes with the sound tech, who leans over to Daisy’s mic and says:

“Yeah man, I’m going to get famous by plagiarizing your song titles.”

Daisy watches the exchange with amusement, and announces the next song before Joey turns off their mics. Then, she leans on the table, watching them curiously.

“You two seem to have become really fast friends,” she comments, and Jemma looks at Fitz and nods.

“Well, he’s pretty awesome,” she says, and Fitz rolls his eyes, faces the other way to mask the way his face is flushing.

“She is a  _ pain _ , I’m just here to get famous,” he jokes, making Jemma slap his arm. Daisy’s face visibly softens and Fitz raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“Nothing, you two are just cute, that’s all,” she replies, shrugging. Jemma’s face darkens slightly.

“Are you gonna be the one to start the dating rumours?” Jemma asks, more self-deprecation and tightly-contained anger in her voice than Fitz would’ve been expecting after such a fun morning. “Because I would appreciate a heads up so I can let my PR people know.”

Fitz looks at her, confused, but before he can say anything, Daisy raises her hands. “Wait, hold up, first of all, I would  _ never  _ stoop so low; in case you haven’t noticed I don’t work at a tabloid,” she says, waving her hand to remind Jemma of their surroundings, “and second of all, Fitz and I go way back, so if there was anything about his dating life he would want me to know and/or say publicly, he would just tell me. It’s not my place to comment or speculate on whatever you two, or any other artist that comes on my show, for that matter, have going on in your private lives.”

Jemma doesn’t look at Daisy, instead fixes her gaze on the table. Fitz places a hand on her shoulder and leans closer to her. “Hey, what’s going on?” he asks her, concerned, and she shakes her head.

“Sorry, Daisy,” she tells her, then, finally looking at her, “I shouldn’t have snapped at you, none of this is your fault.”

Daisy winks at her. “It’s cool.”

“It’s just,” Jemma says, sighs again and rubs her face, “it’s been a long week and PR has been on my back for a few days now since they knew we had some press coming up, and you know how fond of me tabloids are, I can’t help but be defensive,” she sighs, then looks at Fitz, “I’ve had many friendships ruined over petty rumours, and I don’t want this one to end up like that too.”

Fitz moves his hand from her shoulder to her wrist and squeezes softly. “Hey, I get that, but I promise that’s not going to happen,” he says, then moves his other hand to her chin, lifts her head up so she’s looking at him directly. “Why would I let some dumb rumours ruin something that’s so important to me?”

They stare at each other for a few seconds, and then Daisy clears her throat.

“We’re back on air on 10 seconds, guys,” she lets them know, and just like that the moment is broken.

The certainty that their friendship would survive any rumours the press came up with, however, was stronger than ever.

(That night, Daisy texts Fitz “now, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to but are you  _ sure _ there’s nothing going on?”

He doesn’t reply.)

-o-

It doesn’t take long before they fall into a routine on the few days a week they don’t have to perform or work. They don’t have enough time to go sightseeing, so instead they stay in, either inside the tour bus or one of their hotel rooms, eating pizza and watching shows that get left forgotten by the inevitable conversation. Sometimes, Jemma’s dancers or Fitz’s crew or Mack join them, especially during movie nights, and a few times they even force Melinda to watch some trashy romcom with them, just to mess with her; more often than not, though, it’s the two of them, gaining weight and getting to know each other far more than they previously had, while their friendship was mostly through text.

It was different now that they spent most of their time together, and they could feel the change. They moved around each other with ease, finished each other’s sentences and bounced off each other’s ideas, and even started catching each other’s mannerisms without noticing, which also started translating on their performances every night. Their friendship started to become more intense the more time they spent together, and by the time the tour hit the three-month mark, Fitz was already struggling with the idea of life without Jemma Simmons around after it was over.

Of course, he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud, not to her or to anyone else; it was scary, how important she had suddenly become to him and how impossible his life would seem if she wasn’t around. Instead, during one of their movie nights, he jokingly tells her that in three months she would finally be free of him, and Jemma pauses the movie they’re watching, looks at him straight in the eye.

“Now, why would I ever want to be free of you?” she asks him, narrowing her eyes at him, and he’s suddenly speechless, so he shrugs, not able to do anything else. Her hand briefly grazes his. “Listen, you have very quickly become one of my best friends, if not my actual best friend. And I think I’m not the only one of us who knows that what you and I have is special and very rare, so why would I want to be free of that? You make me a better artist and a better person, I don’t take that lightly.”

He can’t look at her, instead he only nods and closes the small gap between their hands. “I hope you know I feel the same way,” he says, his gaze fixed on their linked hands on top of the covers.

-o-

One night, a few minutes before he’s supposed to go onstage, Jemma runs over to him, the expression on her face equal parts amusement and curiosity, and tugs on his sleeve to grab his attention.

“I believe you would’ve told me about this if you knew, so I’m assuming you didn’t know and I’ll spare you my anger for now,” she tells him, calmly, then hands him her phone, where one of her friends had just sent her a paparazzi shot of Daisy and Antoine Triplett, better known as just Trip or the newly-crowned Prince of R&B, walking out of a restaurant hand in hand, “but since when is Daisy dating Antoine freaking Triplett?”

He can’t help the laugh that escapes from his lips, and he shakes his head, “I actually had no idea they even knew each other, but it kinda makes sense if you think about it.”

“It  _ does _ , it’s why I’m a little mad I didn’t see it coming! But really, she knows everyone in showbiz, are you  _ sure _ you didn’t know?”

He grabs his guitar and adjusts the straps, then looks towards the side of the stage where one of his techies is already motioning for him to go in; he then pats Jemma’s shoulder and lingers a few moments longer than necessary.

“Now, why would I gossip about the love life of my famous friends? That’s just not who I am,” he says, then winks at her, and walks onstage before she can say a word. She only gapes at him.

-o-

The second their plane landed in L.A. for their five-day stay, Jemma dragged Fitz along with her to her childhood home, eager for him to meet her family. The prospect of meeting Jemma’s family, a group of people he had only marginally met through her countless stories about them, people that meant the absolute world to her, was a little unnerving for him, and so he tried to focus on making a good impression.

“Fitz, please stop fidgeting,” she tells him, immediately noticing his restlessness, on the back seat of their Uber. “You don’t have to make an effort, you always make a good impression. Honestly, I can already see my brother liking you more than he likes me.”

“Impossible,” he says, and brushes some nonexistent lint off his pants. Before he knows, they are pulling up on the doorway, and even though he should not have been surprised by the size of her home, given how many stories about it he knew already and how many pictures he had seen, he still can’t help but gape a little.

“It’s a little too much, I know,” she says, bashfully, “but this is where I grew up, so.”

He shoots her a pleading look. “Please tell me you have horses.”

She snorts, then grabs his hand to lead him inside. “I’m sure Dad will be delighted to show you around the stable,”she says, nonchalantly, and his face lights up.

The day itself is uneventful, Jemma’s family being even kinder and funnier than he expected and the house being even bigger than it seemed; it was also a wonderful thing to see Jemma around her family: she seemed more relaxed and happier than he usually saw her, surrounded by people who loved her unconditionally.

(He had to include himself in that group of people.)

After dinner, they’re all on the living room, Jemma and her parents sitting in front of the fireplace making s’mores while Fitz sat on the couch with Jemma’s brother, having a beer.

“So,” Lance says, sipping slowly from his beer, after their conversation has died down, “you and my sister have been getting close lately.”

Fitz rolls his eyes at his unsubtle attempt to decipher what was going on. “Not the first time we’ve gotten that, thank you,” he says, then shrugs and looks away from him, his gaze finding Jemma, biting a s’more with the most childlike enthusiasm he had ever seen on her; it was adorable, and he couldn’t help but grin at the sight. Those moments where he saw her unwind were rare, and he cherished them.

“Oh I know that, the difference is that I’m not interested in writing a tabloid about my sister’s love life or lack thereof,” he points out, eyebrows raised, “it just so happens that I grew up with her and I know her, so.”

Jemma turns around to look at her brother and her best friend, and waves at them both before winking at Fitz and then turning her attention back to the fireplace. Fitz can’t stop looking at her, the light of the fire and the gleeful expression in her face making her features look even more radiant than usual.

It hadn’t occurred to him that he had been thinking she was radiant for a while now.

“Well,” Fitz sighs, sips from his own beer to avoid Lance’s gaze, “nothing is happening, so.”

“Not right now,” Lance replies, patting his back a few times, and Fitz doesn’t bother to correct him.

-o-

By month four, they’d taken to sharing Jemma’s single room in the tour bus during the nights.

Fitz loved tour buses, but he could never get comfortable in the bunks, no matter how he tried; the lack of sleep always left him feeling cranky in the mornings (that is, until Jemma showed up with some tea and a bright smile, and whatever negative feelings he had were left forgotten), and it wasn’t long before Jemma started noticing the correlation between his uncomfortable bunk and his morning moods.

“We could switch once,” she offers him one night, while the credits of the movie they’d just watched were rolling, “I’ve never actually slept in a bunk and you could use an actual good night’s sleep.”

“I’m getting a good night’s sleep in a few days when we stay at a hotel,” he tells her, trying to decline her offer, but she insists.

“But that’s not fair to you! You should be comfortable on the bus too,” she says, then tugs at his arm, “come on, just one night. Please? For me?”

He couldn’t refuse those pleading eyes. 

The problem started when he actually woke up in a good mood after one night of sleeping in her room. Not only was the bed very comfortable, but since this was Jemma’s room, the smell of her surrounded him and helped him unwind, causing him to fall asleep immediately after his head hit the pillow.

He tried not to think too much about what that meant, and instead woke up earlier than usual, well-rested and happy. 

He walks out of her room, stretching his arms above his head, and walks over to the kitchenette where she is already making tea, her sleep-tousled hair pointing in every possible direction. He greets her by kissing her forehead.

“Morning,” he says, and she raises her eyebrows at him.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” she asks, a smirk showing up on her face, and he looks away.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, then turns around to flop on the sofa. She looks at him expectantly, holding both mugs of tea in her hands, and he groans. “Okay, fine, your bed is a thousand times more comfortable than my shitty bunk, are you happy?”

She smirks at him again. “Very,” she admits, then walks over to him and sits next to him, hands him his mug of tea. “I know I’m often right, but I’m glad I was right about this anyway.”

“But why?” he asks, “it’s still your room. It’s not like we’re switching or anything.”

She frowns for a second, then shrugs. “Eh, we’ll think of something.”

That night he falls asleep on her bed immediately after the show; she doesn’t have the heart to wake him, but she also doesn’t really want to sleep in a bunk again, so she puts on her pyjamas, shoves Fitz softly to make him move out of the way, and flops down next to him, falling asleep quickly. 

(Neither of them mention how they wake up all tangled around each other, nor do they question their new sleeping arrangements when they happen again the following day.)

-o-

“…but seeing them interacting with each other, it would be impossible to guess that they’ve only known each other for ten months,” Fitz reads, as Jemma drinks iced tea and soaks in the sun on their hotel’s poolside, listening intently, “their level of comfort around each other is the kind that only comes from years and years of familiarity, even if they don’t seem very aware of it at first.”

“I mean,” Jemma points out, “I didn’t notice you were carrying around hair ties for me until she pointed it out.”

“To be fair, I didn’t notice I was doing that either,” he admits, “your hair is just always in the way. How hasn’t your stylist made you cut it yet? Because I’d agree with that.”

Her eyebrows peek over the top of her sunglasses. “You love my long hair,” she says, before taking another sip from her iced tea. He shakes his head and leans back on his chair, looks at her.

“Your long hair is inconvenient and you look like a baby lion when you wake up.”

“Baby lions don’t have a mane, Fitz.”

“Ah, so you admit your hair looks like a mane in the mornings,” he smirks, and she groans and slaps his arm softly, but her hand lingers long enough for him to place his own hand on top of hers and keep it in place, before clearing his throat and resuming his reading. “Not only do they make an excellent creative team both on- and offstage, proven time and time again by their individual and joint performances on the Night-Night tour and by their duet, ‘Something Magnificent,’ which is part of Simmons’ fourth album and has recently been released as the third and final single from it—by the way, has Melinda heard back from the Recording Academy yet?—, but they are effervescent and almost explosive when they’re around each other, heightening the other’s positive qualities and stealing every spotlight in any room they’re in.”

“This article was kinder than I expected,” Jemma notes, tapping a mindless rhythm on Fitz’s arm, “and no, she hasn’t, and Jeff is about to have an aneurysm.”

He snorts and throws his head back. “You better be paying for his therapy, that poor man…”

“I pay him enough for him to afford any therapist he wants, but I’m sure he would think it’s bad press for Jemma Simmons’ publicist to be in therapy so,” she shrugs, and then can’t help but smile. They stay silent for a moment, and then Fitz freezes and tugs at her hand.

“I forgot, I wrote another song,” he tells her, pulling his phone from his pocket, “this one’s a little different but–”

“Please,” she interrupts him, snatching his phone from his hand, “I’m going to absolutely love it anyway, like I have absolutely loved the last twenty-four songs you’ve showed me.”

He huffs. “It has  _ not _ been twenty-four songs.”

“Yes it has, I keep track,” she says, winks at him, and presses play. As always, Fitz stares at her carefully, watching her facial expressions for any change or hints as to what she was thinking, and as always she kept a straight face, closed eyes and a soft smile, until the song was done.

This one  _ was _ different. This one wasn’t about himself, or a love song, or about any of his own experiences; it was an anthology of all the stories of Jemma’s dancers, stories that went way beyond what he had struggled with and that left him itching to write, to give these people a voice, and judging by the change of expression on Jemma’s face, she heard them in his song, she got what he was trying to say.

When she takes off her headphones, her eyes are shining.

“I don’t think I’ve told you this,” she says, her voice soft, “but you showing me another one of your demos has been my favorite part of this tour.”

He beams at her.

-o-

The last show of the tour is the same day the Grammy nominations are announced, and Melinda wakes everyone up earlier than usual so they can watch the live broadcast. Mack sits next to him, rubbing his hands together in worry, and that makes Fitz even more nervous than he would be otherwise; seeing his manager nervous wasn’t an everyday thing. Melinda is sitting calmly behind Jemma, scrolling on her phone and drinking water.

Jemma sits next to him, playing with his fingers to keep herself steady, and breathing slowly. 

She nudges him with her shoulder. “This doesn’t get any less unnerving.”

He huffs. “You’ve won a thousand Grammy Awards, Jem,” he reminds her, “I’ve never even been nominated.” She makes an indignant noise.

“That changes in about 10 minutes, just you wait,” she tells him, and before he can reply, the announcer starts listing the nominations in all Pop categories. Unsurprisingly, Jemma is immediately nominated for Best Pop Solo Performance and Best Pop Vocal Album, both categories that she’s almost guaranteed to win. Surprisingly, at least for Fitz, their song is nominated for Best Pop Duo/Group Performance, and the room erupts in cheers; he doesn’t really notice, instead he hugs Jemma, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck and his wrapped around her waist, and spins her around.

“I told you we’d get that nomination!” she says, grabbing his face and pressing an excited kiss to his cheek, and he rolls his eyes.

They don’t have enough time to celebrate their joint nomination, however, because the presenter starts announcing the Big Four categories. Best New Artist is first, which gives them a small moment to breathe, and before they know, Song of the Year is being announced.

Jemma is nominated and, for the first time, so is Fitz. Once again, the room erupts in cheers, and Jemma holds his wrist so tight he thinks she might leave a mark.

“Oh my God,” she says, quietly, “Fitz, you have a nomination.”

He blinks. “You do too.”

She shakes her head. “Yeah, but this isn’t my first nomination–Fitz,  _ you just got nominated for a Grammy Award _ .”

He wants to answer and point out it’s technically his second nomination, but then Record of the Year is announced and she’s nominated again, and finally, she’s nominated for Album of the Year too. He can’t speak, or think, or move.

He’s nominated for two Grammy Awards. Jemma is nominated for six. 

The room is suddenly out of focus, and all he can see or breathe or think is the woman in front of him, beaming at her crew but with one hand holding tightly onto his.

He can say with all certainty that he has never been happier.

That night, people cheer the loudest for them.


	3. Chapter 3

This wasn’t the first time Fitz would attend an award show—he had performed in some before and had been nominated for a few small awards—; it was, however, the first time he would attend a big award show as both a nominee (twice!) and a performer, and it wasn’t just any award show, it was the Grammy Awards of all things.

To say he was freaking out was an understatement. 

Thankfully, not only he had Mack by his side, but Jemma would also be there, though she wouldn’t be performing. He wouldn’t admit this to her, but knowing she was there was helping him keep his nerves on check… for the most part.

This night is big for him, though. Solo performance aside, tonight might be the night he becomes a Grammy Award winner, and as much as he tried not to get his hopes up and be realistic about his chances, he was feeling optimistic.

Jemma’s PR team, fully aware of how press liked to react every time she so much as breathed in close proximity to any human male, gently warned them not to arrive at the same time; Fitz wasn’t exactly scared of Jeffrey Mace, but he was also not stupid enough to piss him off. So he kept to himself that afternoon, getting ready and texting Jemma every chance he got and watching random movies in his hotel room until it was time to finally leave.

Of course, once he actually arrives and he catches a glimpse of her on the red carpet, he starts to suspect exactly why her PR team didn’t want them to arrive together: he was certain that he would not be able to take his eyes off her the entire night, because Jemma Simmons looked absolutely, jaw-droppingly  _ stunning _ , and if they had arrived together and then he spent the entire night looking at her, there would undoubtedly be rumours. Hell, seeing her walking down the red carpet, he was tempted to write those tabloid headlines himself.

Her dress was white and long enough that it pooled around her ankles, her bare back showing through an almost transparent fabric and a very distracting low cut on the front covered by silver chains; her hair was resting softly on her shoulders, the waves framing her face in a way that made her look slightly younger and fresh-faced; she looked taller than usual, which would be a problem for him if he wasn’t so in awe of how the entire ensemble made her look.

He shakes his head and reminds himself that he doesn’t want to be the reason she has to put up with any more press than she absolutely has to. This night is about her music (and  _ his _ , he thinks with a pang of excitement), so he decides to focus only on that, and leave anything else for later. 

He walks over to where she’s talking to an interviewer to finally greet her in person (and to avoid a Jeff scolding for not taking the opportunity to give their song some gratuitous press), and the camera flashes start to go off the moment he places a hand on her shoulder.

“Hey, Jem,” he greets her, and she turns around as soon as she hears his voice, her face lighting up immediately. “Hey everyone,” he says, then, waving awkwardly to the interviewer and the camera.

“Fitz!” she says, eagerly, and throws her arms around his shoulders. The interviewer laughs and gives them an amused look.

“Well, looks like it’s been a while since you two saw each other,” she comments, in a slightly prodding tone. Fitz shrugs.

“It’s been… what, a week, maybe?” he says, and Jemma frowns.

“No, no, it was definitely longer than that, it was… a week and a half,” she states, and smiles at the camera. Fitz can’t help but roll his eyes fondly at her.

“That’s basically the same thing, Jem,” he points out.

“It’s really,  _ really _ not the same thing,” she says, pokes him in the arm, then holds him at arm’s length to examine his outfit and raises her eyebrows in approval. “I can’t believe you’re here early, and you even look decent.”

“Is it rare for him to look decent?” the interviewer asks, then, but her voice seems to have softened a bit, watching their interaction. He blushes, then glares at Jemma.

“Do I need to bring up the lion mane?” he replies, making Jemma gasp and clutch at her chest in faux-offense. 

“You wouldn’t,” she says, and he crosses his arms.

“You just slandered my personal style in front of a camera, Simmons,” he tells her, “I think I’m allowed.”

The interviewer eyes them both, her gaze moving back and forth like she’s watching a game of table tennis, and then looks at her cameraman who only nods in response. 

“You two seem to be very comfortable teasing each other,” she comments, and Jemma snorts.

“This is how we usually work, and it’s the kind of thing you get used to on tour,” she replies, then nudges Fitz with her elbow, “I even miss being constantly annoyed now that I don’t have Fitz around all the time.”

His gaze visibly softens and he grins at her. “Aww, you finally admit you like it when I annoy you!” he teases, and Jemma laughs again. Behind her, Melinda taps her shoulder and points at her watch, so they smile politely at the camera while the presenter finishes off the interview and then they’re back down on the red carpet, now to take some joint pictures.

The camera flashes are dizzying, but Fitz doesn’t mind them so much, instead he slides an arm around Jemma’s waist and tries to look at a fixed point, while she leans on him slightly and places one arm on his shoulder.

“You really do look nice, I meant that,” she says, trying to keep her smile wide and not squint. He grins even wider, which would sure make for good pictures, and looks at her.

“Yeah, you don’t look so bad yourself,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant. His arm is still wrapped around her waist when she turns to look at him, eyebrows raised, and their eyes meet for a split second; they’re both still smiling, but once they look at each other, their smiles are no longer for the cameras but for each other.

Not even one second later, they both laugh at the same time, and the camera flashes get even crazier.

-o-

Turns out, performing at the Grammy’s by himself is something beyond what he can possibly describe. He had performed once before, when Phil had invited him onstage to perform with him, and though performing a song with a music legend had undoubtedly been amazing in and of itself, it was  _ nothing _ compared to performing his own songs, by himself.

He manages to lose himself in his music for three and a half minutes where nothing else matters in the world, not even the award he had just lost and the award he was, no doubt, about to lose to Jemma (not that it mattered to him anyway, losing to her wasn’t really losing in his book). He performs, and it’s like nothing else exists.

When he’s done performing, his gaze (and the cameras) find Jemma cheering for him with the biggest smile on her face, Melinda next to her almost looking proud of him, and Mack behind them,  _ definitely  _ looking proud of him. 

For a moment, he’s on top of the world.

-o-

He steps off the stage feeling very content; of course, that feeling goes away when he goes back to his seat just in time to find out neither him nor Jemma had won the Grammy for Song of the Year.

He tries to hide his disappointment, and he mostly manages to succeed when he feels Jemma’s hand sliding under his and squeezing his fingers tight, but the loss still lingered on his mind. He wasn’t an overly-confident person, and he knew that statistically speaking, first-time nominees weren’t likely to win one of the major categories (unless they were nominated in  _ all  _ of the major categories); he was also aware that he would probably be nominated again soon, if he had any say in it.

Still, he had gotten his hopes up despite how much he tried not to, and even if his duet with Jemma didn’t win—which he wasn’t expecting anyway—, he still wanted to win this, so losing was a disappointment. 

Jemma wins Album of the Year, thankfully, because he wasn’t sure if he could’ve handled her losing her award too. He gives her a standing ovation while he watches her walk to the stage hesitantly, thanks to her uncomfortable high heels, and he looks on proudly as she grabs her award with one hand while she waves with the other; she looks so pleasantly surprised that he almost forgets about his own bad mood for a second, instead letting the pride he felt take over. 

This wasn’t the first award of her career, not by a long shot; still, it was her first major award since they had become friends, and seeing her on TV, an abstract concept of an artist, win an award, was nothing compared to seeing his best friend walk onstage to receive some well-deserved recognition for her masterpiece of an album, that not only he had been lucky enough to have been a part of, but that had also given him the chance to meet her and become his friend.

Maybe he hadn’t won himself, but in a way, this felt like a win.

When she walks back to her seat and flops down next to him, he’s looking at her just as proudly as he had while she received her award.

“So,” she says, grinning, “are you up for that afterparty?”

He wasn’t. He did not want to be in a place full of alcohol and successful, Grammy winning artists, while all he had going on for him was Jemma; still, she looks at him with her puppy dog eyes, and he can’t say no to her.

It occurs to him that it’s been more difficult than usual lately to say no to her; he waves that thought off, and holds his hand up for her to high-five.

He doesn’t remember the rest of the ceremony.

-o-

Jemma holds his arm tightly when they walk into the afterparty, partially because her high heels were making her lose her balance and partially because she had noticed his mood shift and wanted to keep him grounded. It was telling that she  _ knew _ she could keep him grounded, and it was even more telling that he honestly felt like he would blow up if she wasn’t holding his arm.

Maybe he should’ve been more worried about how dependant he had become on Jemma, but he wasn’t in the mood; he grabs a glass of champagne from a waiter walking by and sips, then grimaces.

“God, I need something stronger,” he whines. Jemma eyes him.

“Careful there, you don’t want to get drunk in a room full of press,” she reminds him, and squeezes his arm. They take one step forward and she almost loses her balance again, making him snort.

“You’d think you’re the one who’s drunk already,” he says, and she glares.

“Don’t test me, Fitz, my feet hurt and these heels are infernal,” she warns him, only half-joking. He points towards two chairs and raises his eyebrows, and the look she gives him is enough to make him feel glad he suggested sitting down.

They haven’t been sitting for a full ten seconds when Trip approaches them, wearing a wonderfully-fitting suit and a dashing smile. 

“Hadn’t seen you guys tonight!” he says, greeting them and extending his arm, “Fitz, I don’t think we’ve met yet?”

Fitz gives him a tight smile; he had nothing against the man, he just wasn’t in the mood for being polite. He shakes his hand anyway.

“Pleasure,” he only says, while Jemma stands up to greet him properly.

“It’s been a while,” she says, giving him a quick, one armed hug, “how have you been?”

“It’s been a year, I believe since Coachella?” he asks, and she nods. Then, he turns to look at Fitz again? “That was an amazing performance you gave back there, man! Sorry about the Grammy though, but Daisy was just telling me she’s certain you’ll get a nomination next year– actually, she’s somewhere in here, she’ll probably drop by soon.”

The mention of his loss only rubs salt in the wound, and Fitz can’t even muster a smile at the mention of his friend; Jemma, however, does give him a teasing smile. 

“About that,” she says, poking his shoulder, “when and how did  _ that _ happen?”

Trip is only too happy to sit down and start telling them the story, his expression changing from polite interest to immediately smitten in a matter of seconds. Fitz can’t help but find that endearing, even through his bad mood, and he finds it even more endearing how interested in the story Jemma is, nodding along and commenting every once in a while, absolutely enthralled by the tale of their first date.

Her eyes light up at the sight of Trip’s face whenever he mentions Daisy, and for a second he lets himself imagine what it would be like if this story wasn’t Trip’s but his, eyes lighting up and smile gracing his face every time he mentioned the woman he loved.

It’s in that moment where he has a brief flash of himself inside Trip’s story, and the woman standing by him is none other than Jemma Simmons.

The flash disappears as quick as it came, and he decides to brush it off as an effect of the moment and the half a glass of champagne he had.

-o-

By midnight, about fifty people are holed up in Trip’s penthouse, music blasting and alcohol everywhere. Jemma is already feeling the effects of the liquor, so Fitz makes her take off her killer heels and he carries them around in one hand while she clings to the other and leans close to him, closer than she probably should in a room full of press. Somehow, even though he’s definitely drunker than she is and she knows, she still trusts him enough to keep her upright; not that she’s wrong: he knows he wouldn’t let her fall even if he himself lost his balance. 

He tells her this in a whisper and she looks at him in an undecipherable way for a second, before hugging his arm with both of hers and planting a small kiss on his shoulder. 

They sit side by side on the balcony of the penthouse, sharing a beer and a quiet moment after almost five hours of journalists asking them all sorts of questions and other artists trying to mingle with them; she was telling him about all the invasive questions she had gotten, most of them about the nature of their relationship, which would always make them both roll their eyes but that, right now, felt awkward and exhausting. Still, Jemma was good at handling press and making small talk, remembering almost every person she had ever met and not having trouble with following up on their lives, diverting conversations she didn’t want to have, smiling politely and charming everyone around her. Fitz wasn’t as good at she was, not even in good days, but now, drunk and in a bad mood, he was even less comfortable around so many people, longing for his flat and sleeping in and maybe cuddling up with Jemma–

He freezes, and Jemma notices, immediately stopping her sentence to give him a concerned look, her arm brushing his in the small space they were sharing.

“Fitz, we get those relationship questions all the time. Is it bothering you?” she asks, genuinely worried, and he shakes his head.

“No, no, it’s not that,” he rushes to say, trying to give her a reassuring look. She doesn’t seem any less concerned.

“Are you alright? Are you drunk?”

“Just cold, that’s all,” he says, though his voice sounds strained. She nudges his arm and leans closer.

“Are you sure?” she insists, rests her chin on his shoulder, her mouth a few inches away from his cheek, and he nods, looking to a fixed point in the wall in front of him, unexpectedly dizzy 

The night air is cold, but right now all he can feel is her breath on his face, a slight smell of alcohol, and her warmth making his body burn; he turns to face her, then, and their lips aren’t a full inch away from each other’s, so much that he can almost touch her upper lip with his. This time, it’s not just a momentary thing; this time, it’s not the alcohol either.

This time, all of him wants to lean in and close the almost non-existent gap between their mouths, all of his cells burning with the sudden realization of how much he wants to kiss Jemma. 

It would be so easy to just make that leap…

Someone knocks on the glass door, breaking their moment and startling them, making them jump apart, both blushing deeply. The person on the other side is Daisy, who looks at them for a second before sliding the door and walking inside the balcony.

“I don’t know what was just happening and I don’t want to know,” she says, both of her hands raised, “but it sure looked like  _ something _ from inside and I think someone might’ve taken pictures.”

Jemma buries her face in her hands. “Oh, God.”

“Yeah,” Daisy says, apologetically, “so you might want to do some damage control… and drink some water, you’re both drunk.”

She walks away before either of them can say anything, and while Jemma rubs her face and groans, Fitz sits there, unable to move or think or even breathe. 

That, whatever it had been, was definitely not because of the alcohol or because of the setting. That had been over a year in the making, and he was just realizing what he had known subconsciously the entire time: throughout this past year, since the moment he met her, and especially over the past six months, he had been in love with Jemma Simmons.

He stares at his hands in horror, the realization hitting him like a freight train, and for a few moments his brain can only focus on how he is in love with Jemma, on how long he had been in love with her, and how he hadn’t, couldn’t have realized it sooner.

When he looks up again, he’s alone in the balcony.

-o-

He walks back inside almost 10 minutes later, sober and scared, and the first thing his eyes find is Jemma, leaning against a wall with her eyes closed. He walks over to her almost on autopilot and places a hand on her wrist, and she doesn’t need to open her eyes to know it’s him.

“Is it time to leave?” she asks, and he clears his throat.

“Yeah, we should… yes.”

She finally opens her eyes, and she looks regretful when she speaks. “Jeff told me we should probably leave at different times. Just… just to make sure.”

He swallows hard and nods, deciding not to protest. He then he holds his hand up, still holding her heels, and smiles. “I still have your heels,” he says, making her snort.

She gives him a small kiss on the cheek before she grabs her heels and walks away; he watches her as she leaves, her white dress slowly disappearing on the dark hallway outside. 

Five minutes later, he’s walking home by himself.

-o-

Leopold Fitz was in trouble.

He wakes up hungover and angry, but most of all he wakes up very aware of how in love with Jemma Simmons he was. That could never be a good combination.

He rolls off his bed and flops on the floor, and he knows he’s in love with Jemma. He manages to get up and walk to get himself some water, and he’s reminded that he’s in love with Jemma. He looks at his phone on the nightstand, and he thinks about how he’s in love with Jemma.

In less than 12 hours, the focus of his entire life has shifted, his thoughts have become totally consumed by constant reminders that he is impossibly, irrevocably in love with Jemma Simmons.

So, he is in trouble.

He decides to take this day to sulk, needing some time to feel sorry for himself now that he had lost a Grammy Award and now that he was in love with his best friend; of course, Mack shows up about an hour after he wakes up with coffee, pastries, and enough attitude to get him off the couch.

For a second, Fitz thinks this is the kind of thing he should deal with alone, not burden anyone else, let alone Mack, with; then, he thinks back to his music and how crystal clear he always had been through his songs, burdening the entire world with his troubles, and how Mack had been the one person who always saw right through him even when he didn’t want to. And then, he can’t help but talk.

“So,” he says, clearing his throat, feeling suddenly self-conscious, “looks like I’m in love with Jemma.”

Mack stares at him, blinks, then stares at him some more. When it’s clear Fitz isn’t going to say anything else, he narrows his eyes. “Yeah, and water is wet. Why is this surprising, again?”

Fitz gapes at him. “Wait, did you–”

“Fitz, man, I hate to break it to you, but everyone and their mother knew. You haven’t been getting the ‘are you dating’ line of questioning for the past year because tabloids want an exclusive, it’s because you two act like newlyweds.”

“I’m sure the tabloid thing isn’t true,” Fitz mutters, avoiding Mack’s gaze. The man sighs tiredly.

“My point is, everyone could see it but you, apparently. Why do you think Jeff has been so worried? Your friendship is… intense, to say the least, and it has been from the moment you met, so even though this isn’t surprising in the slightest, it could get ugly. Especially after what happened last night.”

“How’s Jeff doing?” he asks Mack, who only raises one eyebrow at him. He nods. “Well, that’s…” he rubs his face with one hand and groans, leans his forehead on the table. “Christ, this is bad.”

Mack pats his back softly, and doesn’t reply. That’s all he needs to know.

-o-

In what might’ve been the worst timing in history, the UK/Europe leg of their tour started a week after the Grammy’s, and Fitz spends at least two days out of that gap week freaking out. Dealing with seeing Jemma every day and sharing living quarters with her again for three weeks, all while dealing with the stress of the tour, was easily doable before he realized he was head-over-heels in love with her, but now it was sending him into a panic spiral, which he had to deal with if he didn’t want his performances to be affected.

His inner Mack voice tells him none of it had to be any different, at least for the time being; the only thing that had changed was that now he knew what their interactions meant, at least on his side… which, he had come to realize, was yet another issue. It wasn’t just being in love with her, it was also that he couldn’t know for sure if Jemma felt the same—even though, from his perspective, she had most definitely intended to reciprocate, had they kissed in Trip’s balcony—, and even if she did, after all they’d been through, he knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t just drop everything and fall into his arms and they’d live happily ever after; it would take a lot of work, and maybe it would take convincing, and it would take more damage control than he could imagine if it went wrong.

But, in the midst of all the panicking, he allows himself to think about it for a just second, to picture his life if Jemma was more than just his best friend… and he sees her, happy and radiant, all because of him, and he knows he’s going to fight for this.

It was a big risk, but it was a risk he was willing to take.

The guitar in the corner of his room is calling him, and he walks over to it, already writing lyrics in his mind. As he had always done, he would communicate through song, the language they both spoke the best; maybe then she would understand, maybe she would see what he sees in her, maybe she would grasp just how much he loved her.

Maybe she would even reciprocate.

He grabs the guitar and strums a chord, jots down some lyrics, and before he realizes, not even two hours later, he has written her song.

His phone rings insistently while he’s putting the finishing touches on the lyrics, and he looks at the screen to find Jemma’s grinning face on the screen. He takes a deep breath and answers the phone, and a minute later he’s helplessly smiling at the sound of her voice and her enthusiastic retelling of an afterparty story, and he forgets about any fears he might have had about diving into this possibility with all the force he could muster.

Because living his life with Jemma beside him was definitely worth it.

-o-

The first day of the tour, Jemma greets him as enthusiastically as usual, walking up to him and wrapping her arms around his waist from behind him, before standing on her tiptoes to reach his face and planting a small kiss to his cheek; he freezes almost imperceptibly once he feels her body pressing to his back, his stomach dropping and heart beating faster, but before he can stop himself, his hands go to her wrists to hold her gently and their hands tangle together.

He couldn’t stop himself from touching her, he couldn’t stop his body from reacting whenever she was around, and he had never been more aware of that fact.

“Are you ready?” she asks him, her breath hot against his neck, and he rubs her forearms up and down.

He’s being honestly when he says, “yes, I definitely am.”

-o-

Their England shows go off without a hitch, and before they know it’s time for their Glasgow show; of course, after their L.A. trip, and after how much his mum had been insisting on meeting Jemma, he finds himself on the back of an Uber with her, making their way to his childhood home.

This time, unlike L.A., he definitely has a reason to be nervous: he had picked this moment to show her the song he had written.

She picks up on his nervousness, and places a hand on his knee to keep him from fidgeting.

“Fitz, nothing is going to happen,” she reminds him, “I’m actually very excited to meet the woman who raised such a wonderful man.”

“Yeah, well,” he swallows, “I’m not excited about the inevitable baby pictures.”

“Oh, but darling, that’s the most exciting part!” she says, patting his knee, “but really, I’m going to love your mum and I can assure you she is going to love me.”

That is most definitely not going to be an issue, he thinks, and before he can say anything, he can see his house in the distance, half the size of Jemma’s childhood home but still his favorite place in the entire world.

His mother is waiting for them in the porch, and the moment he sees her, he’s immediately struck with the peace and familiarity that only she could bring. She greets them both with a warm hug and a comment on how Fitz was losing weight, and when Jemma laughs at his mum’s comments, he knows he’s home.

-o-

She runs her fingers through the shelves of his childhood room softly, almost as if she was afraid she would break something. He sits on the floor of his room, mindlessly strumming the strings on his guitar, and watching her intently, absolutely enthralled by her expressions every time she saw something she was interested in. 

She was so breathtakingly beautiful, he almost couldn’t concentrate on anything that wasn’t her. But he had a job to do.

He clears his throat. “Hey, remember how I said I had written a song last week?” he asks her, trying to sound nonchalant, and then her undivided attention is on him. 

“Please tell me you’re showing this song to me now,” she pleads, and sits on the floor in front of him, resting her chin on her hands. He nods, and takes a deep breath.

“This song is important to me,” he explains, “so I need you to pay attention to what I’m saying… and just, don’t say anything until I’m done, okay?” She frowns, but agrees anyway, and with a final breath, he starts playing.

This song had gotten away from him the moment he started writing it down, and though he wanted something more subtle, there was no mistaking who this song was for: he described everything about her in a way that couldn’t be misconstrued, and then he talked about their night at the Grammy’s afterparty and what it had meant for him, what it had made him realize.

He thinks he's getting to her, he thinks she might get what he was trying to say, until he finishes playing the song and he looks up, looks at her expression and realizes she did not look happy. She looks at him with a mixture of terror and desolation, her eyes filled with tears that, for the first time, weren't happy tears.

The blood drains from his face. “Oh, God, you don't–”

“No,” she rushes to say, and wipes one tear from her cheek, “no, it's… Fitz, I… I can't. I can't–”

“You can't what?” he says, in a tone that was more demanding than he intended. He should've known, and he felt like an idiot for making a fool of himself without thinking ahead, without realizing what this would mean for her, for them, if she didn't feel the same way.

Her face is buried in her hands, but when she looks up at him, she looks absolutely broken.

“This isn't about what you think it is,” she says, her voice breaking, “Fitz, I– listen, you're my best friend. I love you  _ so much _ I feel like I'm going to burst with the force of it,” she admits, and he did not think he would feel such despair at the revelation, but he felt absolutely hopeless.

“Then what is it?” he asks, but this time his question is loaded with resignation. She holds one hand out and he takes it, grabs it like a lifeline, and closes his eyes to keep the tears from falling.

“I'm not like you,” she says, choking back a sob. “You take risks, you don't overthink things, and you don't have as much to lose as I do. You're thinking about what you'll gain, but all I can think of is how much I can lose, and I have lost enough, I can't lose you too.”

“Jem, you won't lose me,” he pleads, though he knows she has made up her mind.

“But I can't risk it,” she says, and wipes off her face again. “I can't risk it, there is too much at stake… though,” she gives him a self-deprecating smile, “it seems like I might have ruined this already. I’m sorry.”

He squeezes his hand and leans closer, looks at her with all the honesty he can muster when his heart is breaking, and smiles.

“Don’t apologize for being honest with me,” he tells her, looking in her teary eyes, “and I can tell you this: no matter what, you can't ruin this. I promise you're never gonna lose me.” He sighs then, and smiles sadly. “I just wish things were different, that's all.”

“So do I,” she says and looks down, and that's the end of the conversation.

The ride back to the venue is silent.

-o- 

As much as he wished the circumstances were different, the next two weeks are strained anyway. He couldn't look at her, he couldn't see her and think of all they could be and all they weren't, and he couldn't see her and not feel like his heart was breaking in a million pieces, and she knew; she did always know him better than almost anyone, and this time she used that knowledge to give him the space he needed to heal.

So for the next two weeks, they barely spoke more than absolutely necessary, and it was torture.

He hadn't told anyone, but Mack noticed, just as he always had, and cornered him one day after he finished his set in Paris.

“What exactly happened between you and Jemma?” he demands, and Fitz shrugs. “Don't come to me with that, you guys went from acting like newlyweds to acting like bitter exes in a day, and not only it's starting to affect your performances but it's also creating a tension that you could cut with a knife. So, what happened?”

Fitz grabs Mack by the elbow and tugs, leads him to a dark corner, and then groans.

“I told her, didn't work out, now she's giving me some space.”

Mack looks at him. “Yeah, I don't buy that; that girl is stupid in love with you. What actually happened?”

Fitz lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “That's the issue,” he says, “it's not that she doesn't feel the same way, it's that… this life we live, it's not cut out for a relationship. Maybe in another life it would've worked out, but…”

“Oh,” Mack says, and that's all Fitz needed to hear.

“Yeah. So I just have to deal with it and then we can go back to how we were,” he says, and Mack places a hand on his shoulder.

“I don't think you can go back,” he tells him, and Fitz only looks at him. 

As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he's well aware that there was no going back. But between having Jemma as just his best friend and not having her at all, the choice was obvious.

He just hoped he could live with that.

-o-

When their plane lands back in the United States, she hugs him tight.

“I'll call you, alright? Just tell me when you're ready.”

He holds her tighter than he should, given the circumstances; the warmth of her body keeps him grounded, even though it hurts to hold her so close and still be so far from her. 

“I will,” he says, grabs his suitcase and, with one last look, turns around and starts to walk away, rushing to catch another plane.

“Fitz?” she calls his name, and he stops, his back still turned to her.

“Yeah?” he asks, not looking at her, and she gives him a sweet smile that he doesn’t see.

“Don't wait too long.”

He smiles, shakes his head and walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 has been done since before Chapter 1 was done so after some editing I think it might post it earlier, who knows... anyway, as always, thanks to Shay and Cindy for being their usual awesome selves.


	4. Chapter 4

Two weeks.

It takes them two weeks to speak again, and it's Jemma who decides to reach out first, despite what she had told him. Truth is, it wasn't that Fitz wasn't ready to talk to her—in fact, he had been a mess now that they weren't regularly speaking. He just knew that, if he wanted their friendship to truly work out, they both had to take time to heal and, as much as it hurt them both, this separation was a necessary measure.

It didn’t really hurt that ever since the debacle at his childhood home, it had been obvious to anyone who spent time with them that there was a chasm building up between them; ever since the tour, the rumours had been rampant and the tabloids had gone crazy with stories about them only being friends as a PR stunt, or even more stories about a bitter secret breakup (which, Fitz thinks with amusement, wasn’t  _ quite  _ right).

But just as he was unraveling without her constant presence in his life, so was she, and the tipping point for her ends up being the same as Fitz’s, only delayed by a few weeks.

Finally, after almost two months of stress, somebody leaks the picture of their Grammy’s afterparty stunt, and media is sent into a frenzy. It’s almost a relief when Jeff sends her a long string of strongly-worded messages about damage control; she can finally stop pretending like that night didn’t happen, in front of everyone and, more importantly, in front of the one person she cares about the most.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long before the tabloids start targeting her, connecting the dots and making up more-credible-than-usual stories about Jemma using Fitz for her own gain and breaking his heart in the process, all while in the middle of their tour; stories where they painted her as the villain and him, as the poor sucker who let himself be wrapped up in someone who so obviously wanted him just as a fling.

It doesn’t take long before she starts to believe them. And that’s when she calls him.

He answers the phone only after a ring, and his voice is tinged with worry when he speaks.

“Jemma?” he asks, the concern evident, and the only answer on the other side is heavy breathing and a choked sob.

“Have you seen them yet?” she asks, her voice thick. He remains silent for a few seconds, then he clears his throat.

“None of it is true,” he says. “Please tell me you don’t believe any of it. Because I sure don’t, and they don’t know anything.”

“I miss you,” she blurts out, then, and it feels like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. The sound of his voice was like a balm, already soothing her very agitated state, and she briefly wonders how could she ever think she could live without it. “I know I promised I’d wait until you said it was okay– I know. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called–”

“No, no,” he interrupts her, “no, I’m glad you called. Thank you. I just wasn’t sure… but I miss you too.”

She’s silent again, then sighs. “Good.”

They stay on the phone for almost a full minute, just listening to the other breathing, and it feels right, almost normal. But nothing in their lives was normal anymore, and even their friendship had crossed over that point.

“I need to get drunk,” Jemma says, suddenly, and it’s such a Jemma thing to say that Fitz can’t help but laugh out loud.

“I’ll pick you up,” he says, before he can really process what he said, but once the words are out he knows he means them completely. Jemma is, once again, silent, and all he can hear is a sigh before she speaks.

“Not that I’m against that,” she says, tentatively, and the mix of hesitancy and excitement in her voice makes him smile, “but right now and given… well, everything, I’m not sure if you picking me up is a good idea. And I’d rather not cause Jeff another stroke.”

Fitz smirks, and it’s noticeable through the phone when he speaks again. “Honestly, Jemma? I could not give a damn about Jeff right now, or anyone else, for that matter. They have ruined so many things for us already, at this point I’m sure it can’t get worse, can it?”

“I suppose you’re right,” she concedes, “and in that case, where do you suggest we go?”

-o- 

One of the things Leopold Fitz is proudest of in his life is his above-average knowledge of pubs, especially inconspicuous pubs where no one would know who he is, or where no one would bother him if they did recognize him. Of course, the task was harder than usual when you were accompanied by none other than one very heartbroken but very rebellious Jemma Simmons, and the difficulty only increased when you added the tabloid factor to it, but he was nothing if not an expert in pubs, and he had ceased to care about everyone else the moment he heard Jemma’s voice on the other side of the phone.

He tugs her by the hand along a deserted street and opens an emergency exit, leads her into the place. It was small by most people’s standards, but he knew the owner of the place and he was certain no one would even notice them being there, and given the current state of things, that was exactly what they needed.

She didn’t look so sure, though. “Are you absolutely certain no one will know we’re here?” she asks him, and he nods in response, keeps leading her through a maze of hallways until they’re in what looked like a backroom, with only a few people in.

“I know the owner, this room is usually where I hang out when I don’t want to be around other people,” he explains, then looks at her, “and not only there’s an actual dance floor, but I’m free to get as drunk as I want, so that’s what we’re going to do.”

She smiles at him, and it’s almost teasing when she speaks. “I’m a clingy drunk.”

“You’re a koala drunk,” he replies, and she laughs. It is music to his ears; he hadn’t heard a genuine laugh from her in weeks, and it felt like a breath of fresh air. “We wouldn’t be here if you weren’t, now, would we?”

She leans in closer to him, probably to say something, but the waitress picks that specific moment to walk in and ask them what they want, making them jump apart as fast as they’d leaned in together. They settle in one of the corner booths and Fitz asks for two beers and a bottle of whiskey. 

Jemma makes a face, and he squeezes her hand. “You wanted to get drunk, didn’t you? Whiskey does the job pretty fast,” he says, and she shakes her head.

“I’m no straight edge or anything, obviously, but you are  _ too _ well versed on alcohol,” she comments, leaning back on her seat and tangling her fingers with his. He nods and reaches for the appetizer on the table, the warmth of her hand on his working faster than any drink he could possibly have.

“You know how many pubs I played at, it comes with the territory,” he smiles, and reaches for both beers as soon as the waitress walks in holding the tray with their alcohol; he hands one of the bottles to Jemma and takes one small sip from his bottle, then holds it up. “To getting drunk and not thinking about anything.”

She smiles at him again, and it looks more like a smirk than anything else. “Except us, possibly,” she offers, and clinks their bottles together.

-o-

They are both three beers in, and their whiskey bottle is almost empty, just as the room they’re in. It’s just the two of them, the loud music echoing from the other rooms in the pub, and their increasingly louder voices talking over the music. He was trying to explain a wild story from a party she hadn’t been to, and she was failing miserably at paying attention to the story, her brain choosing to focus instead on the way his lips were moving; it was amazing how quickly her mood could go from absolutely heartbroken to ecstatic once Fitz was involved, and right now, with alcohol involved, it was getting harder to remember just why she was denying herself something that could bring her so much happiness. 

She remembers, then, that many times she had known exactly where to find her happiness, and every time she ended up overthinking everything to the point where she couldn’t truly feel it anymore, and this time there was so much more on the line and not just for her.

At his home, he hadn’t truly said how he felt about their situation, aside from reassuring her that she could always trust him (which she knew); she almost wished he had told her once that he didn’t care about all they could potentially lose and that he was willing to take the risk, but she knew him enough to be aware that whatever he had kept for himself, he had done so for her sake. But even if he didn’t care, she did, more than she wanted to; she did not consider herself to be as brave as he was, and their careers were proof of that: he had risked everything in his life from a young age to get where he was, and though she did make sacrifices, most of the opportunities she had taken had been handed to her. 

In a way, that was why she always felt so isolated, despite always being surrounded by people: she was terrified everyone would soon see right through her and all they would find was find someone who, despite everything, was still plagued with insecurity. He had sacrificed more than she had, he had struggled more than she had, but at the end of the day he knew who he truly was, he knew he deserved to be where he was, and he knew who he had in his corner. She could not, and would not, afford herself to have that, not if she wanted to survive in a world that was out to destroy people like her.

But being with Fitz, it was different, it made her feel different. He saw beyond what everyone else saw in her, he saw her even in her lowest points and he still was willing to be her friend, to love her, to support her, and to give her space when she couldn’t let him in. She couldn’t risk their friendship, because the risks she had taken before had been nothing compared to this; still, she knows he wouldn’t have gotten to where he was if he hadn’t done exactly that, and she was well aware this was another risk he was willing to take.

Risking their friendship for the possibility of something more… it might be worth it in his eyes, but was it really worth it? 

“You know,” she says, her voice breaking when she tries to speak louder, “press is really mean.”

“Isn’t that why we’re here?” he asks her, filling up their shot glasses with more whiskey. She shakes her head.

“Yes, but that’s not what I mean,” she explains, before drinking the whiskey in her glass, “it’s just that dating me is hard and it's mostly because press is really mean. I am not that bad of a person, but look at what’s happening, apparently now you’re my newest meaningless fling  _ and _ turns out our friendship has been a publicity stunt all along… they won’t stop, they will never stop making things up and they would break us up, and if the past two weeks are anything to go by, that would break  _ me _ .”

He puts down the whiskey bottle and stares at her, his expression unreadable. Then, his hand goes up to her cheek, and she leans into his touch.

“Well, I  _ am _ here right now, aren’t I? Even after you selfishly played with my heart and then told me in the middle of our tour that I’ve been nothing but a sad attempt at publicity, which doesn’t even make sense because you are way more famous than I’ll ever be,” he points out, and she can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the whole thing. He leans in, presses their foreheads together. “After all we’ve been through together, do you think I would let some tabloids, or anything else for that matter, get between this, whatever it is we have now? I have told you many times before but let me say it again: I wouldn’t let it. You know I love you too much for that, right?” The way he says it is so gentle that her heart skips a beat; it’s not like she didn’t know, but it was one thing to assume and another thing to hear it.

She almost doesn’t notice the hurt underneath his statement, but she does, and she can’t look at him when she says the next thing.

“The thing is, everyone else has  _ always _ said the same thing.” 

Fitz freezes. “What? That they love you?”

She snorts, the sound made even more squeakier by the sob building up in her chest. “Well, not  _ that _ ,” she sighs, and goes on. “People always say they don’t care about the press, and I mostly don’t believe them because I’ve been in this business for too long… the difference is that I didn’t  _ need _ anyone else before, not like this.”

“You don’t need me, Jem,” he tells her, and she shakes her head.

“I do,” she says, “I’m a complete wreck when you’re not around! And I mean, yes, I could _probably_ live without you, but I don’t _want_ to! You’re my best friend,” she places both of her hands on his cheeks and forces him to look at her eyes, “and where you see an opportunity to be something more, I see all that we could potentially lose if it didn’t work out.” 

She sighs, then shifts her face a little so her lips are pressed against his palm, and they stay motionless, pressed together in that corner booth, for a while. 

She hopes she can make him understand, truly, what is going on inside her brain, and maybe then they will be able to figure it all out.

He’s quiet for a few moments, and with every second that passes her heart breaks a little more. Then, he drops his hand from her face to the small space between them, her hands following suit.

“We should probably go,” he says, sighing, “the pub’s about to close.” His hand inches towards hers, and the tips of his fingers barely touch the back of her hand before he snaps out of it and stands up, holds his hand out. “Just do something for me, will you?”

She nods, first hesitantly, then more sure of herself. “Okay.”

“Let me take the lead for once.”

She wants to say no, she knows that whatever happens tonight will change them inevitably, but she also knows that she will follow him anywhere. 

For just one moment, she decides he’s worth the risk.

She takes his hand, and he leads her out of the pub the same way they walked in.

-o-

Jemma liked to think she knew Fitz better than she knew most people, but she would have never thought he’d be the kind of person to keep a double headphone jack just lying around in his pocket; thankfully he did, though, and they were young and less than sober and New York City was alive and vibrating right under them and they had just decided to stop caring about external influences in their relationship, so they walked around, listening to his guilty pleasures playlist and holding hands without a care in the world.

Even if there was a small nagging thought in the back of her mind reminding her that they could be caught by paparazzi at any moment, especially as they sat on a bench at Bryant Park, she shoved it down and closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of the wind in her flushed face and the feeling of his warm hand holding hers tightly, never letting go. It’s not like any pictures could possibly make things worse, and if they did, they would deal with it when they had to, together.

Every once in a while, he’d take one of her earphones off and whisper something in her ear, whether about the song they were listening to or about the scenery around them or about something else, anything else, and his warm breath around her neck sent shivers down her spine every time. They don’t say anything during the most romantic songs in this playlist, and she opts to lean her head on his shoulder instead; they dance around lamp posts and run through the half-deserted streets like they’re not who they are, two people in a world where everyone’s eyes are on them. 

They jump and run and dance and hold hands and sing at the top of their lungs like no one else is watching, and for a moment, maybe no one is. For a moment, it’s just the two of them and the music in their ears.

By 5 a.m. they’re walking into her Manhattan flat, both of her arms wrapped around one of his, their heads more clear than they were a few hours ago with the liquor still on their brains. Jemma is the first to clear her throat, when he’s fitting her keys inside the lock, and the domesticity of it all is so overwhelming that she can’t look at him when she speaks.

“I know you’re probably going to anyway,” she states, “but… would you stay?” she asks him, her voice small and unsure. She knows how much she’s asking of him now, and she could probably try to convince him that it isn’t safe out there, for him to be seen walking away from her apartment, but when she looks at him, the way his gaze is fixed on her, she knows he doesn’t need convincing.

He nods briefly and gives her a smile. “Always,” he replies, and she lets go of his arm so he can wrap it around her waist.

She rests her head on his shoulder before they walk into her apartment.

-o-

Jemma manages to catch a few hours of sound sleep, her head buried on Fitz’s neck, her arms wrapped around his middle, her legs tangled with his, refusing to let him go even in her sleep. Instead of catching up on much needed rest, however, he doesn’t sleep, opts for watching her peacefully resting all pressed against him, and feeling as well-rested as he would have if he had slept.

She never let herself be this vulnerable around anyone else, and he knew he was lucky to be able to witness these quiet moments in between her hectic life. It had been these moments, the small ones, where she was a real, fragile, flawed person, that had made him fall in love with her so helplessly… and he was absolutely helpless. He was now able to admit it to himself, how he lived for the little insights of her brain, when he could just watch her exist and laugh and cry and be granted access to her innermost thoughts, the ones no one else ever got to see. Knowing her as much as he did was a privilege, and one that he could never take for granted.

Last night had been different, though. Last night, it had been  _ him _ who had consumed her thoughts and worries, but as always, she had let him in and he had seen the way she felt, had seen the most private of her thoughts and feelings, and a lot of things had become clear for him.

The issue was never that she didn't love him, and he had known that for a long time now. She loved him, she loved him just as much as he loved her, and the revelation was finally as joyful as he had hoped it would be. She loved him, but she had more to lose if they didn't work out, and for someone like her, taking such a big risk was not something to be done without assessing every possible variable. 

He understood, finally, he saw things from her perspective, and it was eye-opening, to say the least. Still, even if they were alike in many things, he would always be the risk-taker between the two of them, whether it meant career choices or something so important and so fragile as the potential of what they could be. 

But Jemma Simmons was most definitely worth the risk.

Like last time, he knew there was only one way he could make her understand that this,  _ them, _ could be so much more than just a potential loss. They could be everything, last night could be the start of everything, if only she opened herself up just a little bit, if she pulled the curtains and let some light in.

He disentangles himself from under her—which takes him longer than expected, seeing as she’s fully wrapped around him—and covers her in one of the spare blankets in her living room, softly, before pressing a kiss to her forehead and quietly padding to her music room.

For all their differences, they still spoke the same language where it mattered. And music was not about to fail him now.

-o-

Jemma wakes up to a warm blanket on top of her, the sound of guitar strings coming from her music room, and an empty space where Fitz should've been; immediately, she knows what’s happening, and she lets a smile take over her face in anticipation of what was awaiting her. She takes a few moments to stretch before getting up and walk to the adjacent room, leaning on the doorway as quietly as possible to just watch him play, his back turned to her, oblivious to his audience.

She can't see his face from this angle, but she finds herself picturing the exact expression on his face, the same one that was always on it whenever he concentrated really hard on his music. She can almost feel the peace radiating off him, and it soothes her in a matter of seconds; this is one of the things she loved the most about him, his ability to work through his feelings with his music, whether he was overwhelmed or stressed or sad or happy or angry or excited. He would always turn to music and it would always be there for him, and the art he created came from the most obscure places of his brain; she was almost jealous of that ability, and wished she could just let her feelings flow into her songs instead of letting the worry and doubts eat away at her until she couldn't take it anymore.

She loved to watch him, even when his face wasn't visible: the small hairs at the nape of his neck, his back muscles tensing with every move, the way his head moved along, probably subconsciously, to the song he was playing, and his posture, so undoubtedly his that she would recognize him anywhere, anytime. 

God, she loved him, she truly did. So much, that her resolve not to let him in was cracking with every second that passed. 

She sighs and takes a few steps into the room, places her hands on his shoulders and gives him a soft squeeze; instead of being surprised or startled, he immediately relaxes into her touch, so she slides her hands down his neck and chest before resting her chin on top of his head.

“How bad is the hangover?” he asks, genuinely worried, and she smiles.

“You made me drink a lot of water out in the park, Fitz,” she points out, “my hangover is nonexistent.” She presses a small kiss to his head and he leans back, chasing her lips in an unconscious move. “Do you feel up for breakfast? You had more to drink than me,” she asks him.

He laughs and turns around to look at her, leaving their faces only a few inches apart, her face hovering above his.

“I can hold my liquor way better than you can,” he points out, though his eyes are stuck on her mouth and she can feel his breath. 

This time, he knows he could lean in and press his lips against hers, and she wouldn’t complain, would even reciprocate. But he feels no rush, no pressure right now. They have all the time in the world, and he intends to cherish it, cherish her.

He shakes his head and focuses on the task at hand, looks down at his guitar at the same time she does.

“So you  _ were _ writing,” she says, taking a step back to sit on the floor in front of him, and it’s so reminiscent of the last time they did this that they both can’t help but chuckle. “That didn’t sound like anything else I know, though, I was wondering if it was a new song…” he nods, and she leans on her elbows once again to watch him play, just as enthralled by him as the first time she did this, almost a year and a half ago.

He starts playing the same chord progression he had been playing before she walked into the room, and smiles at her. “You know how I can be,” he starts to explain, still playing the guitar, “and I’ve found that I express myself a lot better through song. The last time I did this, it didn’t go so well–”

“Let’s hope it goes better now,” she jokes, then leans in closer and looks at him expectantly, with a wide smile on her face. The lack of pressure on both sides was really doing wonders, and they could just sit back and enjoy this song.

“Yeah, well, I have had a lot less time to write this one, so I’m hoping for the best,” he deadpans, but then stops playing the guitar for a second and looks at her in the eyes, now seriously. “I hope you get what I’m trying to say with this, okay?”

She swallows hard, and nods, but the smile doesn’t wipe off from her face. “Okay, good,” she says, and he resumes playing. This time, it takes him about twenty seconds to start singing, but when he does, she is mesmerized by the whole thing, the music, his voice, the lyrics, the way he doesn’t stop looking at her throughout the entire song. 

She quickly realizes he’s describing their previous night, from the phone call she had given him, to the drinking and dancing and singing in the streets, to sleeping on the couch of her apartment, all tangled up together with no worries in the world.

Most of all, she realizes this song is an offer to her. He was letting her know that whatever happened last night, it had been her choice; he was telling her that she could still choose all of it, choose him, choose  _ them _ . He was saying that even when no one else saw her for who she was, he did, and he still wanted her as much as he always had.

He was asking her to make that final leap, take that final risk.

By the time he is done with the song, her eyes are filled with tears. He looks up at her, expectantly, almost hesitant.

“So?” he asks, his voice low. She’s speechless, can’t even bring herself to move, only looks at him with silent tears rolling down her cheeks. He smiles awkwardly and looks away. “I sure hope that the tears are a good sign this time,” he tries to joke, and she giggles tearfully.

“It is,” she says, and her voice breaks in that moment. “It’s very good.”

She had known, of course, for a long time, but it’s almost like she hadn’t truly grasped how much he loved her until she heard that song. And she definitely hadn’t realized how much she loved him until now.

If he could be brave enough for both of them all these past weeks, she thinks, maybe it was time for her to be brave too. 

She takes a deep breath and leans closer to him until their faces are almost touching, whispers: “there’s only one part of the song that’s not completely accurate.”

“What part?” he replies, almost fearful of her answer, and she smirks, even if her insides feel like they’re about to burst with joy and fear and  _ love _ .

“You mentioned a hypothetical situation in which you kiss me,” she explains, “the problem is, you haven’t kissed me yet.”

His face lights up and he leans closer, finally allows himself to look at her mouth with serious intent, and says, his voice lower than she had ever heard it, “Well, I’m sure we can fix that now, can’t we?” before closing the minimal gap between their lips.

-o-

“You know,” he says, carrying a tray with both of their breakfasts, and smiling at her with more love she ever thought possible, “I know I’m a pretty exceptional songwriter, of course, but I don’t buy that it was just the song that made you change your mind.” He sets down the tray on the bed and sits cross-legged in front of it, facing her. 

She has changed into more comfortable clothes and is now wearing his button-down from the night before and a pair of pyjama pants, her hair is pulled up in a messy ponytail, and to him, she looks absolutely radiant. When she smiles at him, his stomach swoops. 

“Well, it  _ was  _ mostly the song,” she says, grabs one toast from the tray, “but the whole thing had been on my mind for  _ weeks _ . I’m just not a big risk taker, you know that.”

He lies down next to her and leans his head on his arm, keeps looking at her from the bed. “You don’t become the biggest selling act in the world by not taking risks, Jem,” he points, and she throws her head back laughing, before lying down until she’s next to him and they’re face to face, bodies pressed together on top of the undone covers.

“Those risks are easy, but this?” she says, motions to the almost nonexistent space between them, “this is harder. I have told you before…” she trails off, and he leans closer to her, places one hand on her cheek.

“Well, in that case, let’s not lose anything,” he offers, and kisses her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, shit.   
> First of all, I know I said I'd post this earlier in the week but this week was an absolute dumpster fire, health-wise, so I apologize for the delay.  
> Second of all, thanks to those of you who stuck with this tiny monster that absolutely got away from what I originally wanted it to be! The good news (for me, at least, since I'm obsessed with this AU) is that I'm not done with this verse because there's so much of it I still want to write, the great majority of it being stuff that wouldn't fit within this fic, so you can expect some stuff (and, you know, _stuff_ ) later, hopefully.  
> Third, and as always, thanks to Shay and Cindy for beta-ing and cheerleading and being their generally awesome selves.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is embarrassing and very self-indulgent, but I don't really care because it wouldn't leave me alone and that rarely happens sooooo. I'm just going to a) ignore the very obvious inspiration behind this fic b) hope those of you who know who this is based on also ignore it and don't expose me even though it's very obvious anyway and c) carry on like I am not an absolute mess of a human being.  
> The fic is mostly done (the final chapter is written in its entirety, and the second and third chapters are only missing a few scenes) so updates should come shortly (like... in a week); but then again I can't ever stay on schedule since my life is a poorly-scheduled mess, so let's just hope for the best!  
> As always, thanks to my midwives Shay and Cindy for not letting me give up on this, beta-ing, cheerleading and letting me scream about not-so-unrelated things.


End file.
